Once upon a time (the Ching dynasty, to be exact), a pastry chef worked in a teahouse in Canton went back to his hometown in Chiuchow to visit his wife for Christmas (okay, not yet in the Ching dynasty). Imbued with a desire to show off to his significant other his newfound repertoire, he packed along a collection of pastry specialties of the teahouse made by himself, no less. Watching his wife ate the pastries mutely, his asked her for opinion. To his surprise, his wife allowed that these gaudily made confectionaries were nothing extraordinary and that she had eaten better in the homemade sweetened winter melon paste cake in her childhood.
The chef was totally put down by such comment so he asked his wife to make the cake for him to try. His wife happily complied and made up the cake with some of the simplest ingredients: some flour, a slab of winter melon paste and a couple spoons of sugar. Unimpressed by the outlook, the chef put the cake into his mouth grudgingly. But once he started to chew the cake, he was totally bewildered by this sensationally zesty cake. The puff of the cake was utterly crusty, airy yet brittle. The sweetened winter melon paste, on the other, was refreshing, chewy and brusting the fragrance of the winter melon in a just-right sweetness. It was so good that the chef couldn't help but eating one after one like there was no tomorrow...
The chef later brought the cake back to his teahouse and offered his boss to try. His boss was even more dazzled by this cake and kept begging for more. When asked who's the baker, the chef proudly returned: "My wife." "So this is the wife cake," quipped the boss. Not to squander this luscious cake, his boss suggested selling it in the teahouse and the chef agreed. Thence, the "wife cake" was bought to fame and remained a beloved staple for teahouses in Canton - with our devotees of sweets living happily ever after.
